


Ikhthuzul

by classikewl



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Post BoFA, hover over translations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 18:42:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11652432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/classikewl/pseuds/classikewl
Summary: Once inside, once back where he's always belonged, Bilbo lifts his head and hears the most striking of songs. Desperate and dark, so bitter as to be sweet, he follows the lull despite the aching plea of his feet.Kûr sâti astu thadulurazyung, croons the still air,'Atsu amê ikhthuzul, echoes from a bejeweled stair.Down he goes, down each steep step.All the way down, till there’s not a single one left.





	Ikhthuzul

*

The sounds never stop, the shouts never cease. They bellow all night, never giving him a single moment’s peace.

Moans from the teapot, cries in the larder, Bilbo just goes to the floor, the whole of him a shudder. “Okay, of course,” he whispers from behind his hands, tears again dripping, body refusing to stand. “Silly thing, I know, to ever have left.” He crawls to the chest, shaking wrists straining under the lid’s heft.

Everything’s inside, just as it was before; the ring, the sword, the mithril he only once wore.

Like the risen moon the circlets shine in the dark, so forever and strong as to made ache Bilbo’s heart. “Why?” he whispers, shaking there on the floor. “Why ever did I take this, when you would need it more?”

A ring on his finger, the sun bright overhead, no one notices Bilbo leaving, staring right through his head.

There’s a cart on the road, making for far beyond the Shire. They don’t feel Bilbo climb up, don’t see how he’s so tired.

The road is not short, and the days are so long. The shouting never ends, so desperate and strong.  _Kûr sâti astu,_ cries a voice so very deep, so wretched and sad, echoing as Bildo weeps. _Kunh muhulsu astû ganagmâ_ , that booming voice groans, a thunder so grand as to seep through marrow and bone.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Bilbo cries aloud, the driver then starting and looking all around.

The mountain is still so lonely when he’s finally near. So grand and ever reaching, striking the sky as though a spear. The lake lies quiet, the skies cold and clear, there’s nothing here at all like the terrible strife of past years. Bilbo sees the gate in the distance, that towering reach of stone.  _Ganagmâ,  _the voice tells him, in that miserable groan.

The cart doesn't go there, not right away, but Bilbo’s just too wretched to allow even the barest delay. He runs until he’s out a breath, crawling after each fall. His knees are scrapped bloody, his clothes torn all. The mithril shines through, such glimmering might. Though none ever see, as Bilbo’s strange ring keeps him from sight. Not as he is would they ever let him in. No one would help Bilbo cleanse this greatest of sins.

But a burglar once, he’ll be a burglar again. Though rarely does a burglar ever intend to stay in.

*

Through a hollow he does climb, up and down rock he does tarry. He hurts, he's so tired, but Bilbo knows he must hurry. The mountain cuts his feet and draws blood from his hands, but Bilbo keeps striving, and after every fall stands. He won't get back in the way he did before, but Bilbo knows that Erebor has more than one secret door. A king once showed him how, crowned in madness and wrath. He’d whispered of legend and treachery as they’d together unburied the long-hidden path.

Once inside, once back where he's always belonged, Bilbo lifts his head and hears the most striking of songs. Desperate and dark, so bitter as to be sweet, he follows the lull despite the aching plea of his feet.  _Kûr sâti astu thadulurazyung,  _croons the still air, _ 'Atsu amê ikhthuzul,_ echoes from a bejeweled stair.

Down he goes, down each steep step. All the way down, till there’s not a single one left.

The crypt is dark, oh the crypt is deep. The stone is so cold that it burns Bilbo’s poor feet. The light is dull and the torches so weak, but Bilbo needs no sight to find the one for whom he still seeks.

 _Yadi!_ the song cries.  _Yadi!_ the voice moans.

“I am,” Bilbo calls. “I’m here, don’t you know?”

Desperate and shaking, he stumbles down the center, past every stone grave and each quiet brazier. Past the woven tapestries, past the statue of Mahal’s great hammer, Bilbo hurries on and on past each blood-line banner.

But then Bilbo stops and all of him knows, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. 

There is stone before him, made of slabs thick and wide. Gold lines the rim and Khuzdul is etched on every side.

Bilbo strains and he shakes, body all a quiver. A moment long held, but finally the top moves a sliver. Again he pushes, withered muscles clenched tight, and the lid slides further, a darkness inside black as night. But immediately he climbs, joints weak and skin torn, as determined as the sun when it rises every morn. A moment and he’s in, sucking a great lungful of air, the dark so complete, but for the awoken jewel that shines upon his hair. “I’m here,” Bilbo whispers, laying his head on a leg of stone, the song all gone now that he’s no longer alone.

But the stone doesn’t speak, not like it did before. Not like a king once did, matted in glory and gore.

Bilbo climbs further, still shaking, won’t stop until he’s all the way in. That’s fine though, just fine, even as a jewel cuts his skin.

Closer now, and then finally he can see. The broad brow, the sharp nose, he can even imagine eyes as blue as the sea.

And Bilbo just has to stop as he cries, dust and jewel light in his always burning eyes. “What good is there left in this long life of mine? How could I think to go on, when your eyes do not shine?”

 _Inkhi dê duyudul_ , that desperate voice then drones.  _Atsu amê hikhthuzul,_ commands so miserable a moan.

“Yes,” Bilbo sobs, “I’m here, I’m back, and I’ll never ever leave.” Nevermore could he stand the distance, any absence no true reprieve.

Thorin’s lips are so hard, so stern and so cold. A dwarf returned to the stone, laid to rest under a hoard of gold.

“I didn’t mean to leave you be.” Bilbo cups solid cheeks in his shaking hands. “A foolish thing to pretend that I would ever not follow you to even the farthest of lands.”

Oh, how loudly does the stone then groan! How it does shake and shudder, now no more alone. So glorious a sound, so grand a feel, as Thorin’s hands grasp him, hard in stone but sure in love made real.

They curl around Bilbo’s elbows, a hold so firm and forever, and Bilbo can’t but laugh; as if he’d think to leave, ever.

The stone does ripple and the stone does trek, spanning across Bilbo’s face and all down his neck. He smiles though, teary-eyed and wide, the sadness all gone as he lets out the most relieved of sighs. His strange little ring then does shatter, but Bilbo’s too content for it to ever again matter.

The king’s eyes open, such fire, such triumph in his gaze. He’ll have love everlasting, even though so short were his days.

The tomb goes quiet, the long halls as silent as hereafter.

The darkness returns, the jewel’s light gone now forever.

*

Morning comes, and the guards find the disturbed hollow. They see trailing blood and are quick to follow. Down into the mountain, past the Great Forge’s unending fire, each step is hurried, but they one and all never tire. There’s something amiss, something not right. There are footprints in the crypt, as though someone snuck in late last night.

With blades drawn and shields held ready, the dwarves advance, so cautious and steady.

The crypt is quiet but the braziers are all cold.  No light touches the graves, but for the torch one guard holds. Kings to the left, kin right beside, there's nothing out of place but for the bloody smears that make their guide.

But then it’s so clear, then they all know.

One tomb lies open, but is far from hollow.

“Send for the king,” one guard whispers in the cold air, as the torch flames waver and flick shadows in her hair.

The cry is taken up, the halls echo loudly, the noise so great that Dain Ironfoot wakes with heart pounding wildly.

“The king, the king,” he repeats to himself, war behind his eyes as he takes his hammer from the shelf. His wife grabs her blade and quickly they go, out the doors, through the halls, but to where they don’t know. Alone they are not, for every guard follows. They all come running, battle in their blood, their bone, their marrow.

Down the long stairs, across the golden hall, they find the ancient crypt open, and the guards take a knee all.

No words are spoken.

Not wonder or shock.

What could even be said, to see a Hobbit made rock?

Low goes Dain’s hammer, low goes the queen’s blade. Slowly they step to where Thorin Oakenshield has long laid. But he is not alone, not anymore. Upon one hero is another, at least according to lore. Bathed in stone, in Mahal’s great might, here lies a halfling given a dwarven death right.

“The Arkenstone,” Dain murmurs, before bravely reaching in. It is not a jewel he takes out, but something so cold and ugly as sin.

With a great shout the king strikes it upon the ground. It screams, it  _screeches_  in so terrible a sound. The guards show their teeth and shields raise high, but the Arkenstone’s madness there finally dies.

But the crypt is still silent, the curse finally spurned. But even undone, those gone cannot be returned.

The queen from her hair takes a crown of silver so fine, in the torchlight it does brilliantly shimmer and shine. She then approaches on such quiet feet, standing before those that in life she never did meet. But stories have been sung, and tales told boldly, so she feels naught but kinship in a dead king’s stone glory. The Hobbit is different, something she’s never seen. Still, he is legend, to be honored by any dwarrow queen. She bows her head, as Dain does beside her, “In Arda remade, may the world be far kinder.”

Then so gently does she lay the Consort’s Crown atop the Hobbit’s small head.

But what for? Alas, dear Bilbo is dead.

*


End file.
